her skin stained red
by gardevoir
Summary: I came hoping to see those eyes, but instead I return with my heart, leaving behind only flowers.


very loosely based off some personal happenstances.

summary is a quote from the author Kim Dong Hwa.

some of the events in this story tie into **chapter 2** of _tiny little adiantum_. you don't have to read that to understand what's going on but if you want a bit more context I'd recommend it

Ferdie technically doesn't have a favourite flower but I figured out of all of the ones you can get in the game, this flower had meaning that associated with him the most so

**spoilers for Dorothea/Ferdinand's B/A supports, Dorothea/Petra's A support, and Ferdinand/Hubert's A/A+ supports**

* * *

**look at me.**

**oh please look at me.**

**i want your eyes to look upon me alone.**

"_Maybe I can believe you. I've wanted to since the day you made those treats… I thought maybe you weren't like the others, but… There's a lot I have to let go of, Ferdie._"

Ha. What a fool she'd been.

She realises her fatal flaw once she sees them, the contrasting pair. She had thought nothing of it at first, but as the days pass, it all starts to click: the lingering gazes; the prepped cups of tea and coffee; the subtle brush of shoulders in the halls.

'_Why did I think he would have waited for me?_'

But the denial had dug its claws in deep all the same; Dorothea needs confirmation from the source itself before she can truly come to terms with what her heart had already known. It aches daily—the pain pierces through her like a spear once she receives her answer.

"So. You and Hubie, huh?" she asks the cavalier before their morning council, eyeing the fresh cup of coffee he sets on the table in front of the seat said mage always takes.

She wipes away the look of disdain she'd given the offending object before he turns to face her.

"'Hubie' and I… what, precisely?" Ferdinand counters, hand flourishing as he walks to where his own seat is, the inquirer in tow. His act is bought when she notices his brow draw inward.

"Oh, Ferdie! Don't play dumb! You know I'm talking about how close to the two of you have gotten!"

"Ah, yes. Well. _That_." He has the decency to look at least a _little_ flustered with the topic at hand, but it's as clear as the day outside that he's unashamed—_proud_, even.

The spear slides farther in.

"We are indeed committed to each other. However, we did not feel the need to make a show of it, seeing as we are amid a war; matters such as personal romances are trivial in comparison. But, while we are on said matter, I see you and Petra have grown to be rather fond of each other these days?"

"She and I are… _burgeoning_, yes," she answers vaguely, smoothly sidestepping his conversation detour to return to the one she'd meant to pursue. "But you and Hubie! Wow! I would have never guessed! What is it that draws you to him? You two couldn't be more different!"

"You are correct. I suppose that is the reason why, actually. He is my foil when it comes to advising Lady Edelgard; we complement each other quite well in said contrast."

"Oh, Ferdie. So sincere. I meant what draws you to him physically, silly!" Though she brings a hand to her mouth to giggle behind it, she feels something at her sternum stir, as though strings have begun to strangle her heart. '_I don't want to hear anymore of this… but why do I still press for more?_'

"Ah! Well, I… I have never entertained this thought, truly." He ponders this question for a bit as the others begin to file in. In his search, his eyes find the ones of the subject of conversation as he thinks; she wishes she could erase the way they look at each other from her memory, the yearning that lurches her stomach forcing a shuddering breath from her body.

She pushes the rest of it through her nose before she can give the game away.

"Perhaps it is his—"

"Do you wanna know what _I_ think it is?" she offers—interrupts—happy to have his attentions return to her. "I think… he's kinda like a rat, y'know?" She elaborates when he deigns her with almost disapproving confusion. "Always speaking and skittering around in the dark," her fingers dance like said skittering legs to emphasize her point, "but still kinda cute in a weird way."

She grins from ear to ear when he blesses her with his warm laughter, its chilling absence that much more prominent when he quickly takes his seat after catching Hubert's glower from across the table.

Finding her own seat two chairs down, the vines continue their slow progression to her lungs.

/

_In a state of partial undress, Dorothea sat at her dresser that night, utilizing the soft illumination of the candle and the reflection in the mirror to braid her hair the way magenta strands once demonstrated. Said instructor lied down underneath sheets behind her, appreciation increased in her stare as she basked in the glow of post-coital bliss._

_But the moment was not built to last._

_The Brigid princess sat up with a start once the violent coughing began, sparing no moment to adorn herself properly following the slip of sheets. She adhered herself to the dancer's side, rubbing at the other's back in soothing circles; she watched helplessly as a left hand covered a mouth and a right hand clutched the fabric over its heart._

_At its end, the silence in the room grew, its cause lying wet in Dorothea's palm: a single ivory petal, speckled beautifully with red._

_"I am knowing about this… affliction," Petra speaks softly, now kneeling next to the chair. The addressed doesn't turn to her, gaze trained on the piece of plant instead. Tanned hands encompass her pale one; her stare still does not waver. "It is happening when—err, happens when a love is not being returned."_

_Jade eyes close as a copper pair look on. "It is not my love you have yearnings for?"_

_It was more of a statement than question; the princess stands once more, pressing a kiss to the side of the dancer's head. "Good night, Dorothea."_

_The whispered words of parting wavered, leaving stains on both Dorothea's skin and Petra's clothes in their wake._

* * *

i** even tried to learn what is called a "song."**

**songs can make someone have feelings for you.**

**that's what they say.**

**so i practiced every day.**

**but he still won't look my way.**

It feels like she'd opened a blighted box of sorts.

News of the new couple had spread swift throughout the monastery—there hadn't been a moment in time and space where Dorothea could go without the chatter. From the sauna to the stables, all she can hear are speculations and speeches concerning the perfect pair.

Those metaphorical vines are realised now, the buds and petals that spill from her lipstick-covered lips spreading that dreadful colour onto the white handkerchief she'd set out for herself on the teatime table maneuvered into her room. Adding to her misfortune as she waits, her next-door neighbor finally acts upon the consistent coughing today. The knock at her door tells her as much.

"H-Hey, Dorothea? Can I come in?" Bernadetta ventures carefully as she enters, shrinking away slightly when the addressee gives her a sharp—though weary—stare. "S-Sorry! Don't kill me! I j-just… I've been hearing a lot of coughing coming from your room lately! A-Are you, uhm… are you… sick?"

The brunette's stare softens, closing her eyes and taking the much-needed deep breath her depraved lungs scream for. "Well, something like that," she replies, a dry, humourless chortle lagging behind. Her head bobs back and forth as she mulls it over, reopening her eyes when she ultimately decides to share. "Actually, maybe you can help me figure out what kind of flower it is?"

"F… Flower?"

"But you can't tell anyone, alright? Promise me."

"Wait, what do you m—"

"_Promise me, Bernie._" The command lacks the authority she'd hoped to possess, voicing a desperate plea more than anything else.

"I-I promise. I promise!"

"Thanks." Otherwise wordless, she folds the handkerchief in two, motioning for the head of purple to sit next to her. The dancer gradually pries open the sheet, eyes flitting to a shocked expression.

"You—! That's—!"

"Bernie, not so loud!"

"Sorry… Sorry, sorry!" she squeaks shrilly. "It's just, you—have you—are you really—"

Dorothea refolds the handkerchief for now, placing her left hand on Bernadetta's shoulder. "Don't worry about that for now. Instead, could you just tell me what flower this is, please?"

Slowly recovering from her shock, the addressed nods woodenly, looking to the addressor for permission before gingerly plucking the handkerchief from her hands. Studying the single petal and bud inside, horrified recognition begins to blossom on the sniper's face, grey locking with green. "This… Th-This is baby's breath. The only two people I know that like this flower are… it isn't Cyril, is it?"

The smile she receives is wicked—more of a grimace in nature, laced with hurt, sorrow, regret.

"I-It's—Don't tell me it's F—"

"My apologies for my tardiness, Dorothea!" Two knocks sound off at her door before lovely light brown eyes appear. "I hope you have not been waiting too long—am I interrupting something?"

The dancer carefully returns a pluck of the sullied sheet from the startled sniper, motioning with the jerk of her head for the other occupant to leave. "No, you're fine. We just had a quick chat while I waited. You're in luck! The tea's still warm."

Regaining composure, Bernadetta slips past Ferdinand, taking one last glance over her shoulder to conduct a conversation held in the span of seconds through exchanged looks.

"_Please don't die from this._"

"_What other choice do I have?_"

And as Ferdinand regales her with happenstances with Hubert over the tea she uses to repay his treats from five years ago, another coughing fit finds her. She waves off his concern, rasping that the tea will coat her dry throat soon enough; a feigned cause of the problem.

She tucks away the additional four petals and two buds under her thigh.

/

_The sterile, stiff silence of the cathedral at this time of night was fitting, more than suitable for her stellar performance. Her voice shattered through it, the sharp fragments of her pitch reverberating and returning to her. The song was an ancient poem, a melody of merriment from a bard that lavished a tale of his beloved._

_While the song sought to supply the opposite, the space behind her sternum felt hollow, empty, gutted. It flowed from that desolate place to the rest of her, numbing every inch of her body save for the one place she wished for it most._

_As though rendered incapacitated by the contrasting words, her spirited soliloquy ceased suddenly, doubling over with petals that pushed past her tongue. The heaves that wracked her body sent her to the floor, hands and knees supporting her as she tarnished the polished marble underneath._

_She gasped for air once the flowers from her heart had their fill, smearing the scarlet all around in feeble attempts to clear it with her hands. She sniveled as she then attempted to clear her face, sobbing as she employed the use of her burgundy dress to erase all evidence of her visit here; petals gathered in the folds were released to the winds outside on her rush back to her room._

_Dorothea later learned that she was not as stealthy as she'd once thought, laughing bitterly at the rumour of the sorrowful spectre that stalked the holy hall. It turned out that her canticle had been more akin to cries._

* * *

**that's when i realized he cares not for jewels.**

**or songs or beauty or appearance or anything else.**

**i cannot win his love.**

**why have i done this to myself?**

It's a month after the war ends that the announcement is made. The two are to be wed a year from today: the twenty-eighth day of the Horsebow Moon.

How cruel.

An impromptu celebration sparks for the occasion, battle-weary warriors reveling in a moment to be young and free again—things they'd nearly forgotten how to do these past five years. They'd grown up far too fast.

Her laugh is tinged bittersweet when her chance comes to congratulate the couple, relieved when no one notices her slipping away to the walls, still flowering… Well, no one save for one.

"You seem thrilled," a baritone says sarcastically from beside her, sober eye sussing her as it notices the small shakes she'd struggled to suppress.

She'd realised then that it's everyone's inebriation that keeps them ignorant. How unlucky for her that it's _Sylvain_ that forgoes imbibement right now.

"And _you_ seem bored," she wheezes, clearing her throat into her hand and enclosing her fist. "Not drinking tonight? I thought you loved parties. Lots of lovely ladies around for you to give a night to not remember and definitely regret."

His wounded look gives her a laugh, the redhead playing up his pout more than usual to gift any more humour he could offer. Once she'd settled, he smiles again, shaking his head. "I will. But I wanted to talk to you first. You seem off these days. Not yourself. Until now, we haven't bantered like we used to, and it looks like this," he motions to the congregation in the dining hall before them, "has really taken the wind out of your sails."

Her jade eyes widen following his perceptiveness, stammering a weak response to try and throw him off her trail. "W-Well, it's, uh… m-my birthday is tomorrow, so the timing of this seems a bit… you know…"

"You love him, don't you? Ferdinand."

She doesn't reply then, trapped and caught. Her tears speak for her in lieu of words, finding herself wrapped in comforting arms. He soothes her through the sobs, stroking her hair as she hiccups into his green undershirt. "Damn, I'm envious. He's got one of the most beautiful women in the monastery crying over him and he doesn't even know it."

"'_One of?_'"

He grins at succeeding in giving her yet another laugh, helping her tidy up the remnants of tears streaking down her cheeks. "… Can I see?" he asks after a moment of hesitation, holding the wrist that held a tight fist in between his ungloved hands. She takes her own moment of pause, gradually uncurling her dainty—though calloused—fingers. In her palm lie several crushed fully formed baby's breaths.

"You've… You've really got it bad, huh? Never mind crying; you're _dying_ over him." He chuckles, though it's completely devoid of any amusement, tears beginning to sting his own umber eyes. He eclipses her hand with both of his, pulling her in for yet another hug.

This one nearly suffocates her; it would have been a mercy to have died this way instead. She can't stop her own tears when she feels his scald the crook of her neck, his body shuddering in a tempo in time with hers.

"I'm gonna miss you, Dorothea."

She leaves the moment he pulls away.

/

_This birthday gift was perfect, oddly enough. She had asked for an end to the pain that seared her soul, after all. The Goddess merely chose the best way to provide._

_Her twenty-fifth name day was met with the deepest crimson, tainting both ivory skin and flower yet whiter still alike with the accursed colour. The sickeningly sweet smell of iron and pollen merely added to the pile accumulating to her right, tumbling from the edge of her bed to the floor below. She willed her body to move, her head only able to loll to center—a horrendous mistake. She could only lie there, choking on the favoured flower of her beloved and the bloody consequence of her affection._

_What a disgrace, this red that sought to mar everything from her sheets to her sight. She spared herself some agony from the offense, lids of her eyes sunsetting what remained._

_"I'm sorry to have stained you so."_

* * *

_**author's note**_

I recommend looking up the meaning of baby's breath

(there's a significance to be found in her talking to Ferdie, then Bernie second {technically third}, then Sylvain last. see if you can figure it out.)

/

would that my tragedy have happened this peacefully.

I think it's time to let you go now, Leo. I loved you. so much.

good night.


End file.
